To restore her, if possible, and bitterly repenting his cruelty, Eccleson now did all in the power of mortal to stay her angel flight. He brought her parents around her—he surrounded her bedside with the most skillful physicians, and lavished upon her all the comforts which wealth could purchase. He took her home and restored to her the treasured associations of her early life. Poor Annette was grateful—deeply grateful for this too long deferred kindness; and now that in this reunion life seemed again to present so many charms, she would have desired to live had her Heavenly Father so willed it. But it was too late. The barbed arrow had penetrated too deeply her innocent bosom to be withdrawn. With her hand clasped in that of her repentant husband, and her head pillowed on her mother’s breast, her gentle spirit took its flight. Gentle reader, this is no exaggerated story I have given you. It is but another life-drawn sketch of the evils which too frequently arise from unequal marriages. * * * * * THE ICEBERGS. BY PARK BENJAMIN. [This poem was composed after reading a vivid description of the passage of a ship through the magnificent fields of ice in Hudson’s Bay, by Ballantyne.] Beautiful are the Icebergs! gorgeous piles, White, green, gold, crimson in the flashing rays Of the round sun. Along the waves for miles They rise like temples of remotest days. Or like cathedrals, churches, columns grand, Grander than all that modern Art can claim— The gilded fabrics of some Eastern land, The mighty monuments of Roman fame. Our vessel sails among them like a bird Of darkest form, and plumage turned to brown, Beside their lustre, as they lie unstirred, Yet threatening to careen and topple down. Strange, splendid, massive, fanciful, grotesque, Of shapes as various as Invention drew— Gothic, Corinthian, Grecian, Arabesque, Perfect or shattered, age-renowned or new. Builded upon the ice-fields, stretching vast Into mid-ocean, like a frozen shore Which skirts a continent, unknown to past Or present time and shall be evermore. Cities and towns girt round with crystal walls, And filled with crystal palaces, as fair As Boreal Aurora, when she falls Brilliant from heaven and streams along the air. No sound disturbs the stillness of the scene Hushed in eternal slumber, calm and deep; To break the spell no voices intervene, The very waters share the death-like sleep.